The Wanderer Scorned

Chanoch braced himself as his father began to falter. Kayin had stood the entire time he’d recounted his horrendous descent to depravity, culminating in the killing of his own brother. Until now, he’d refused to take a seat. Yet as he reached those final scenes, the emotional weight took a toll on his ancient body, and despite its former strength, he began to stoop. He looked like he might fall.

From his position at the back of the hall, Chanoch had a good view of the crowd. They were dense, and pushing through to his abba wouldn’t be easy. Then Adah, the first wife of their host, darted from the shadows carrying a stool and placed it behind Kayin, not waiting for permission. Kayin murmured a word of thanks and lowered himself onto it.

Chanoch breathed in relief. He’d noticed Adah’s careful attention throughout the story. Others had listened too, but not all. Those who hadn’t understood Tzillah’s welcome of ‘The Wanderer’ had soon realised the speaker was their ancestor of legend who lived in the wilderness, mostly unmet and unknown by his kin. The realisation had peaked their interest for a while. Several had turned to scrutinize Chanoch, seeming awed that he would bring his abba to this gathering.

Now Kayin had stopped, the crowd grew agitated and impatient. Their wine had long since worn off. Some had fallen asleep on the floor; a few were even snoring loudly. Others looked unsure what to do with the break in their ancestor’s commanding voice.

Chanoch’s eyes flickered to Lamech. He knew Lamech never appreciated silence unless he was the centre of attention – it was surprising his host had remained quiet throughout. Chanoch had been secretly amused every time he’d seen Tzillah giving her husband a discreet nudge – for Lamech’s chin had lowered to his chest in slumber several times. Now faced with lack of sleep, lack of attention and awkward silence, Lamech appeared decidedly grumpy.

Chanoch had little sympathy. After all, the interruption was Lamech’s doing – it was he who had invoked Kayin’s name when he placed a curse on any who might avenge his murderous actions. Chanoch had put up with Lamech until that point, but such brazen action he could not tolerate.

Suspecting his host wished to discharge his unwelcome guests but was unsure how without being accused of disrespect, Chanoch rose, grabbing a cup of wine that lay untouched on a nearby table. He thought he might revive his abba with it.

As he stepped forward, the early morning sunlight, streaming into the hall from high apertures in the walls, caught Chanoch’s eyes. Shielding them, he witnessed Lamech having a stern conversation with Adah. Guilt flickered through Chanoch’s gut. Would she suffer because of his actions – again?

Just as Chanoch moved to intervene, a different woman stood up from the midst of the crowd. It struck him, for the first time, that she looked akin to Adah, with black hair falling in braids down her back. However, her hair was bejewelled with the white strands of age, rather than flowers, and her umber skin had lost its smoothness.

She carefully made her way up the steps he hadn’t yet reached, walking with a cane curled under her fingers, until she stood near Kayin, still sat on the stool. His abba looked up in surprise, recognition crossing his eyes. The woman held Kayin’s gaze for a moment, as if exchanging thoughts in a silent conversation, then turned to the onlookers – now captivated with curiosity.

Chanoch realised she wanted to speak and wondered how Lamech would react. Again, he prepared to intervene, but again, Adah beat him to it. Defying her husband, Adah strode forward, held a hushed conversation with the elder woman, then crossed back to Lamech and spoke in his ear. He grunted an irritated reply before standing and addressing his guests.

‘Those of you who wish to leave are free to do so. I shall make it up to you next Shabbat,’ Lamech sneered. ‘For the remainder, there are wash basins in the courtyard and couches in the adjoining rooms. You may use them to make yourselves comfortable. We shall shortly serve a morning meal to those who have energy left to consume it, as it seems we have another riveting tale to listen to.’

The sarcasm lacing Lamech’s voice was not lost on Chanoch. Yet, his host had clearly resigned himself to the vexing realisation that many of his guests were willing listeners, or at least wanted to take advantage of his extended hospitality. To disrupt proceedings now would certainly be worse for his reputation than tolerating their continuation. And Lamech had a reputation to preserve – especially after the previous night’s audacious announcement.

The audience sat up, then most disbanded to refresh themselves. Chanoch sipped at the wine still in his hands and lowered himself onto some cushions, ready to people watch from his new position near an ostentatious stone pillar. He heard a cough at his shoulder. Turning towards it, he saw a man, one young enough to have energy left after staying awake all night.

‘May I sit here, sir?’ the young man asked. He had one of those faces which exuded enthusiasm, although in his hazel eyes – rimmed with black – intensity was apparent. A light scar traced the line of his right eyebrow.

‘Certainly,’ Chanoch replied. ‘Do you wish to speak with me?’

His companion nodded and passed him some flatbread and olives from a bowl in his hands, then they began a conversation which continued throughout the meal. Indeed, they only ceased when, at Adah’s request, the woman with the cane took the centre of the platform and raised her voice over the crowd.

Lamech – who had demanded a couch be brought to the stage during breakfast – now propped himself up on its cushions, poured himself a large cup of wine and pulled Tzillah near. Chanoch chuckled at his host’s piqued expression. It was indeed going to be a long morning.